


Adaptability

by LadyLattice



Series: 'Noncompliance' Universe [2]
Category: Naruto
Genre: Adopted Children, Hashirama No, It's Cute Dammit, M/M, Parent-Child Relationship, Poor Madara, What Have I Done
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-20
Updated: 2016-03-22
Packaged: 2018-05-22 00:27:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 17,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6063835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyLattice/pseuds/LadyLattice
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Madara is known for his inflexibility and blatant opposition to change. Yet when Hashirama imposes upon him a burden that he cannot easily dismiss, his adaptability is fiercely put to the test.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> So I decided to add on to the HashiMada one shot I did, and I plan on making this into a multi-chapter thing even though I have other things that I should be working on instead. I’ve just lost some of my mojo for Amity… sorry everyone. But I’ll have some more time to work on these things since I broke my leg the other day (oops). So anyway, here’s this… whatever it is.  
> The Naruto franchise and all associated characters are the rightful property of Masashi Kishimoto.
> 
> Tally ho! Meadie out.

“Madara! Madara, come here for a minute, would you?!”

            The Uchiha clan head glanced up from his papers with a scowl, having learned from prior experience that whenever Hashirama called for him as he busted in the front door like he just had, that something was amiss. Sighing and setting aside his brush, Madara rose to his feet, padding silently down the halls, preparing to scold the Senju for whatever mess he had caused and for ruining the sole streak of productivity that he had managed all day. He stepped through the doorway of their modest living room and froze, dark eyes going wide for an instant before narrowing dangerously at the brunet, who was grinning like a fool with a small child standing at his side.

            “What is that?” Madara asked bitterly, Sharingan blooming to life as he folded his arms sternly across his chest.

            “Not _that_ ,” Hashirama insisted in a whine, brawny hands landing on the boy’s narrow shoulders, “ _he_. This is Kise-kun. _Uchiha_ Kise-kun.”

            The shorter man assessed the child critically for several long moments, crimson glare studying the boy’s pale skin and onyx eyes – ringed with weary shadows from tears and exhaustion – and short hair in a heady coffee brown, nearly black. His back was rigid as he offered his clan head a stiff bow, and Madara noted the way his shirt hung loose around a waist that was too thin from malnourishment and a spine that was too bony. “Kise, huh?” he questioned after a beat of silence, his tone brimming with the irritation that he could not convey with his expression alone. “Son of Uchiha Sora, yes?”

            “Hai, Madara-sama,” the boy answered in a meek voice that seemed trapped in his throat. “My father was Kisuke; he died in the war before I was born. Just before you signed peace.”

            “I recall,” the pale shinobi asserted flatly. “Why is he here, Hashirama?”

            Ignoring his lover, the Hokage dropped to one knee to smile tenderly at the child in front of him, grasping small hands that barely spanned the widths of his palms and holding them snugly, pleased when tension melted from Kise’s slender body. “I’m going to talk to Madara for a minute, so why don’t you go look around your new room and I’ll call you for dinner? Just follow this long hallway around to the right, and your bedroom is on the left, right next to ours,” he said, gesturing his directions and nudging the child along.

            “Hai, Hokage-sama.”

            “No, no, no, Kise,” the brunet hushed the boy, brushing short, dark hair from his brow. “You can call me Hashirama if you want, or dad. Whatever you like, okay?”

            The little Uchiha nodded and tottered off, unsteady from fatigue, fingers trailing absently along the wall as he vanished around the corner. With a sigh, the Senju stood, turning to face Madara, whose chakra was roiling dangerously in the limited space.

            “’Your bedroom’? ‘Dad’? Are you out of your damned mind?! What is going on?!”

            “Wait, wait, calm down,” Hashirama said quickly, attempting to close his arms around the shorter man in a forceful embrace and stroking down the length of his back. “He’s six years old and has no one left, Madara. His mother died last night. She had been ill for a long time, but I still couldn’t save her. We can’t leave him to his own devices, he’s been struggling thus far as it is! You saw how thin he was! And he’s a good, clever boy, Madara, from your clan. Please… this is our chance to protect something precious. We can give him a good home, and not one father, but two. Please, love. Let him stay.”

            “Damn you, using your guilt to force this on me!”

            “No! Madara… dearest, please.”

            Ceasing his struggling against the brunet’s grasp, the Uchiha sighed, prying himself free as he soothed his chakra back down to a mere ember that flickered beneath his skin, rather than the bonfire it had threatened to become. Frankly, he was reluctant to accept the burden of responsibility that caring for a child would bring, but he considered it carefully for several long moments, deep in thought. Raising a boy of Uchiha blood as his own would surely placate the elders regarding the issue of an heir – or so he hoped – as the stubborn old coots had yet to acknowledge his refusal to marry. With Izuna’s passing, the possibility of clan leadership remaining directly within his bloodline had perished, along with his beloved otouto. He had wished for another chance, to salvage his brother’s life and provide for him an existence that would have long since been possible if not for his own stubborn pride. And before him now stood an opportunity in the form of an orphan, a colossal obligation that would shackle him with a responsibility that he was unsure he was prepared to bear. The looming possibility of failure was suffocating, and the Uchiha clan head struggled to surpass it.

            “Madara,” Hashirama cooed gently, drawing him from his thoughts as tanned thumbs traced the shadows beneath his eyes. “He’s not a replacement for Izuna. You will never have to protect him on your own; I’ll be here always. There’s nothing to fear.”

            He snorted, tossing ebony locks from his eyes with a pointed shake of his head, straining to conceal the impact of his lover’s words from his features. “Fear? No. But what do you expect me to do with the brat?”

            “Act as a father.”

            “Gods, Hashirama… when have I _ever_ been even the least bit fatherly? I don’t know what the hell to do with a kid.”

            The Hokage offered a sweet smile and brushed a chaste kiss across the pale shinobi’s temple, paying no mind to his disgruntled huffs of indignation. “This is new for all of us, even Kise. So just try to be gentle for now, and you’ll surely grow fond of each other and it’ll all work out as it should. I’m already quite fond of him myself, actually.”

            “I refuse to be called ‘dad’,” Madara spat in vague acceptance.

            “Thank you.”

            Frowning and waving the taller man aside, the Uchiha stalked off to his study, calling unapologetically over his shoulder. “Fetch me for supper, I have work to finish.”

            “Hai,” Hashirama sang in response, “I love you.”

            Madara simply grumbled, slamming the door behind him.  


{{{Adaptability}}}

            Dinner was an awkward affair, at best, as Hashirama did his utmost to spur conversation between the two Uchiha that sat on either side of the small table in heavy, impenetrable silence. Occasionally the tension would fracture when Kise would politely ask for an additional helping of rice or miso, his tone solemn and brittle and his eyes carefully refusing to meet Madara’s; though the Hokage was pleased to see that the child managed such a decent appetite. The elder of the pair, however, said nothing at all, his gaze scarcely rising from his food, save to cast the infrequent yet persistently haunting glare to his tan-skinned lover.

            “So,” Hashirama offered once the silence had started to make him squirm, “do you have your Sharingan yet, Kise?”

            “No, sir.”

            “Ah, of course not. You’re young, and you weren’t raised through war. There is no need for you to have awoken it yet,” the brunet hummed, voice soothing like the scent of earth drying beneath the sun. “I’m glad. Aren’t you, Madara?”

            He grunted ambiguously in reply, tucking the last of his rice between his lips and settling his chopsticks carefully back on their rest. “Thank you for the meal. I’ll be in my study,” the Uchiha mumbled in his dark baritone as he rose and excused himself.

            The instant his clan head was gone from the room, Kise sighed heavily, shoulders bowing as if weary from bearing some great burden. “He’s scary,” he murmured, and the Hokage was immensely pleased that some of the childishness had returned to his voice.

            “I know,” Hashirama replied with a chuckle, reaching to tousle the boy’s dark locks. “But it’ll be alright, I promise. You don’t have to be so formal.”

            “Does he hate me?”

            “Of course not!” he exclaimed as if the words burned his heart. “Madara just… he’s not good with change. He doesn’t know how to act when he’s forced to adapt quickly, so he ends up acting very childish himself – slamming doors and locking himself in with his books and shouting and frightening people away with his chakra. He’ll come around eventually, don’t worry. I know he has a reputation within the clan and the village for being spiteful and unpleasant, but Madara is just… Madara, I guess. He has a kind soul.”

            Kise nodded sagely, thin lips pulling into a frown as he poked at his rice, finally abandoning the task to fold his hands in his lap. “Mother always said that he was a good man who wanted to protect the clan, even if he was hated for it… that he was strong because his heart hurts a lot.”

            “That’s a pretty way of putting it. Your mother was a smart lady.”

            “Hai.”

            “You know,” Hashirama began carefully, softening his tone, “I was a little older than you when I lost my mother. She had been ill for a long time, too. Even though she and I both knew that she would pass on sooner than later, it still hurt when she left. I know how sad it is, and it’s alright to feel that sadness, Kise.”

            “Hai.”

            “Good boy. You can tell me anything and I’ll always listen – we’ll never let you be alone again. Madara and myself both, we’ll look after you from now on.”

            “Thank you. But, um…” Kise fumbled for a moment after lowering his head respectfully, struggling valiantly with his words. “Are you sure that I can call you d—dad?”

            A broad grin unzipped across the Hokage’s face as he fought to contain his excitement; though not well, as the child beside him arched a curious brow, blatantly reaffirming his Uchiha blood with the simple action. “Certainly,” the brunet assured, failing to suppress a chuckle. “I’ve always wanted to be called ‘dad’, even though I wouldn’t go around calling Madara that. Not yet, at least. Besides, I think ‘father’ would suit him better, don’t you agree?”

            The boy nodded after an instant of contemplation, a wary, lopsided smile pulling at the edges of his lips. Hashirama watched the child as he finished his meal, and thought to himself how vibrantly Kise reminded him of Kawarama; certainly not in appearance, but in spirit, more apt to observation than action and tender at heart. His brother had been but a year older than the little Uchiha beside him when he was killed, the warmth of his existence gone in favor of several pieces of icy flesh in a wooden box. Itama had cried, he recalled vividly, and had been scolded for exhibiting behavior so unfitting of a shinobi, warned that spilling tears would do naught but dishonor Kawarama’s memory and disgrace him as a true warrior of the Senju. But, Hashirama had countered, what could ever be a larger disgrace then the pointless sacrificing of a life so young and pure – like plucking a bud from its branch before the bloom had even been kissed by the sun? Their father had been beyond displeased with the outburst, but Tobirama had come to his elder brother’s aid before the confrontation could escalate to a level that would scar their relationship irreparably. It was in that moment that he felt his determination to secure peace for his remaining family pour into his heart and solidify, like iron in a mold, resolute and untouchable.

            Now that such peace had been achieved – as fickle and flighty as it had proven to be – the Shodai Hokage felt that it was only right to laugh at the childish dreams that he and Madara had once shared, of a world unscathed by loss. Loss and death would ever remain, as they always had, part of the cycle of existence. Though now they persisted in a different form, more like the inevitable passing of the tide and less as a brutal wound on one’s heart, tirelessly accompanied by memories of small bodies in big coffins and blood-sodden earth. Certainly their peace was not ideal – but it existed nonetheless.

            Hashirama dismissed his recollections with a heavy sigh, fixing Kise with yet another radiant smile. “Kise,” he began, leaning over the table conspiratorially as if discussing classified tactics of war, “how about you take Madara his tea? He likes to have a cup or two around this time of night, especially when he’s working.”

            “Won’t he be angry if I bother him?”

            “Don’t worry, if he’s in a bad mood I’ll come save you,” the brunet winked, toting the child around as he hastily prepared a pot of potent herbal brew, watching the leaves unfurl as they were bombarded with hot water. “He likes being angry at me best.”

Tea tray in hand, the Senju sauntered down the hall with the little Uchiha close on his heels, pausing in front of a door and turning to hand the platter to the child beside him with a kind grin. “Careful now, the teapot is heavy… some ancient thing that Madara refuses to get rid of,” he cautioned warmly as he knocked on the doorframe. “Madara, tea!”

“Enter,” came the flat reply from within, and Hashirama slid the door open wide, nudging Kise inside and shutting the portal behind him, leaning against the corridor wall so as to listen in on the awkward interaction.

“Hashirama-sama said that you like tea when you work, Madara-sama,” the boy offered nervously, placing the tray on the edge of the clan head’s low desk with a heavy clatter and wincing at the sound.

“I do,” he replied coldly as he watched the child’s fumbling movements with narrowed eyes. Raising the offered cup carefully to his lips, Madara took a small sip, apparently sufficiently satisfied with the beverage as he returned to his work for an instant before speaking once more, recalling his lover’s instructions regarding how to treat the new addition to their household. “Did you prepare the tea?

Kise shook his head, gaze returning from its wandering about the room to address the pale man sitting regally on the opposite side of the table. “No, sir.”

“Of course,” Madara scoffed, looking to be far from surprised. “Hashirama always brews it too weak, he can never do anything right. What would people say if they knew that the Shinobi no Kami isn’t even capable of making a decent cup of tea? I’ll teach you how to do it properly.”

The pair sat in silence for a long while, Kise’s eyes firmly fixed upon a sword mounted atop a bookcase, the crimson lacquer of the blade’s sheath as rich and vivid as the Sharingan. He studied the object with interest for several minutes before noticing that he had been shackled with the elder Uchiha’s haunting, scrutinizing stare.

“You are not to touch that,” Madara warned darkly, causing the child to wilt beneath the unspoken threat. “That katana belonged to my brother, Izuna. No one is permitted to touch it, am I understood?”

“Yes sir.”

“Go to bed, your mother’s funeral is tomorrow.”

“Um…” Kise mumbled, tugging at the hems of his sleeves and averting his gaze, “she wanted an Uchiha burial, but I don’t have any jutsu to light her pyre*.”

“I will light it,” the clan head asserted, never lifting his eyes from his work. “Now to bed with you. Go on.”

“Yes sir. Goodnight.”

Madara set his brush aside carefully, brooding in the shadows of the evening while he listened to Hashirama speaking to the boy in warm tones, their voices seeping in from the hall through the thin paper of the door. Before long small footsteps padded off through the corridor, thumping quietly into silence as the Hokage bid the little Uchiha a good rest and slipped into the office, a broad smile etched across his tanned features.

“You did well,” he purred happily, settling to close his arms around his dark-haired lover’s waist and nuzzling kisses along a pale neck.

“That was your idea, wasn’t it?”

The Senju hummed noncommittally, pleased when Madara sighed and permitted his head to lull back against his muscular shoulder. “I’m proud of you. Though you could have been a bit gentler when it came to Izuna’s sword. Kise was just looking, I’m sure.”

“The brat was eyeing it like a prize at a festival.”

“He’s probably just never seen anything like it. It’s beautiful,” Hashirama soothed, holding his Uchiha a bit tighter. “And he’s too young to know of Izuna or his legacy.”

“Be quiet,” Madara huffed and closed his eyes, though there was little more in his tone than exhaustion. “You’ve done far too much talking today. Causing all sorts of trouble.”

The brunet smiled but said nothing, inhaling the mild scent of katon jutsu and something distinctly _Madara_ as his brawny hands roamed beneath his lover’s shirt, caressing scarred, battle-hardened flesh as if it were some precious artifact. His fingers brushed the jade-green gem that hung around the Uchiha’s neck and rested daintily against his chest, and Hashirama mused that he had not missed the necklace for a single instant since Madara had claimed it for himself over a year ago. He likely never would – not as long as the stone remained where it was, securely fastening the other man’s heart to his own.

“I love you,” he mumbled against the pale shinobi’s shoulder, scarcely aware that he had spoken aloud. “So so much.”

“Don’t think I’ve forgiven you, stupid Senju. I’m tolerating this on a trial basis, and I have no qualms against making the kid someone else’s problem,” Madara warned, though he still sank affectionately against the Hokage’s earthen warmth. “I’ll dump him on your brother, maybe… he likes runts, after all. You and he can take the brats and go form some idiot commune.”

Hashirama laughed at the idea as he hugged the smaller man to his chest and laid back on the tatami floor, coaxing the Uchiha to lounge against his broad frame. “’Idiot commune’? What would we do in our idiot commune?”

“Whatever idiots do… idiotic things, I guess. How would I know? You’re the idiot, not me. Why should I care about your idiot itinerary?”

“Silly,” the brunet hummed in contentment, dragging his hands through the mess of inky hair that fell over Madara’s shoulders and back, puddling unceremoniously on the ground. It was always surprisingly soft, that wild black mane, especially after being washed and combed thoroughly by Hashirama the night before; and now the strands spilled through his fingers like water, smelling faintly of gardenia. The Uchiha still fussed bitterly about the routine, scolding the Senju for his incessant pampering, yet he always succumbed to the treatment regardless of his protests. Often upon returning from a long mission he would nearly doze in the bath, lithe body at last releasing some of the tension that had kept him alive during his outing, and leant into the tanned fingertips that kneaded soap from his scalp. Hashirama would never fail to be beyond pleased with his lover’s behavior under such circumstances – as those moments were as rare and precious and beautiful as flowers that stutter into bloom too early in the season.

“Should I put you to bed?” he cheekily asked when Madara sighed sleepily against the skin of his throat.

“Just be still and shut up,” the Uchiha huffed, weakly clapping his palm over the taller man’s mouth. He lay motionless for several long moments, allowing his breaths to rise and fall in rhythm with the beating of the Hokage’s heart. It was slow, steady – like the pulse of the earth itself sang through his veins, thrumming with confidence and warmth. He mused that his own was likely more reminiscent of a thundering war drum, bloody and ragged, uncertain of anything aside from battle and entirely useless out of its very specific context. And that context certainly never included the raising of a child, Uchiha though he may be.

Madara sighed again as frustration worried at his brows, wriggling free when Hashirama tightened his embrace to nuzzle against his lover cutely. “Let’s go to bed,” he whined, stealing kisses from the paler man. “But we can’t be too loud, Kise is next door now. And I know how you can get a bit rowdy.”

Disgusted by the insinuation, the Uchiha glared at the brunet’s suggestively arched eyebrow, fixing him with a daring leer and murmuring with purpose. “I’ll kill you in your sleep.”

“I love you too, dearest.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Archaeology/Anthropology Nerd Moment*
> 
> So I have this head canon where more traditional Uchiha funerals consisted of disposing of remains via fire, due to the clan's affinity for katon usage (think Vikings, funeral pyres). However, upon joining Konoha and assimilating not only into a more Senju-centric cultural system, but also establishing cultural norms specific to Konoha itself via the blending of clans therein, the Uchiha adopt more traditional entombment (burial) patterns as seen post-Founder's era.
> 
> Hence the discussion between Madara and Kise about his mother's funeral. The next of kin would traditionally light the pyre, but due to Kise's age and undeveloped katon skills, that is impossible. Instead, Madara offers to do so, which would be seen as a great honor, as he is the clan head.


	2. Chapter Two

 

            A light knocking outside of the bedroom door woke Madara violently from his slumber, Sharingan blazing into the darkness as he flew to his feet, ready for an assault. Hashirama bumbled awake beside him, flopping gracelessly about on the futon and attempting to talk through the haze of sleep, though his incoherent mumblings did nothing but irritate his lover further.

            “Shut up,” the Uchiha scolded as he stepped over the taller man, crossing the room and sensing around for hostile chakra. Throwing the door open with more force than was strictly necessary, he glared into the dimness of the hall, disappointed when his gaze fell upon Kise, who stood wide-eyed and trembling as aggressively as the house’s rattled timbers. “Kami dammit,” Madara grumbled with a huff, carding his fingers through his sleep-mussed hair, “It’s just the kid. What do you want? I could have killed you.”

            “S—sorry, Madara-sama… I—I had a bad dream.”

            The child shrank back against the corridor wall, ducking away from the scrutiny of his clan patriarch as the man spoke harshly, eyes fading to black once more. “So? What do you want me to do about it? Go back to bed.”

            “Now, now, my dears,” Hashirama sang when he appeared in the doorway, ignoring Madara’s bristling leer and looking disheveled but as gently welcoming as ever, “what’s the problem?”

            “I had a bad dream, Hashirama-sama,” Kise murmured, a flush of embarrassment painting his ears and cheeks, “I—I’m sorry.”

            Nudging past his lover to drop to one knee, the Hokage patted the child’s head with a good-natured grin. “No need to apologize. To tell you a secret,” he began, leaning over to whisper conspiratorially to the boy, “I have nightmares too, sometimes.”

            “Really?”

            “Really. What did your mother do when you had bad dreams?”

            With a nervous frown and a downcast gaze, the little Uchiha rocked on his heels as he worried the hem of his shirt. “She read… or let me sleep in her room,” he murmured weakly.

            “Well then,” the brunet said happily when he stood, “I’m sure we can manage that! Come to bed with us, Kise, and maybe Madara will read from one of his history books.”

            “Excuse me?” the shorter man asked angrily, folding his arms over his chest when his lover guided the child into their bedroom and urged him to settle into the center of their futon. Kise seemed nervous as he nestled under the blankets at Hashirama’s insistence, but appeared to relax when the Senju casually laid down beside him. “You can’t be serious.”

            The Hokage grinned sweetly, gesturing for Madara to rejoin them on the boy’s other side. “Read to us, love. You have such a nice voice.”

            “Certainly not. Stop acting foolish, Hashirama.”

            “Please?”

            He deepened his glare, irritation flashing across his features and deepening the creases beneath his eyes hauntingly. Studying the pair burrowed against each other’s warmth in the center of the futon, the Uchiha patriarch cursed under his breath with a sigh, grumbling that so many years of peace had made him weak – too soft for a man of his position, for a man raised by war. Reluctantly, Madara closed the bedroom door before stalking over to the low table beneath the window to collect one of the thick volumes stacked there and to light a candle, the flame flickering to life as he poured his fiery chakra directly into the wick. The pale shinobi frowned his irritation to his lover a final time as he settled next to the boy cowering into the blankets and glued to Hashirama’s soothing presence, peering up at his clan head nervously. With a brutal lack of enthusiasm, the elder opened the book – a dense tome of military tactics described in desert-dry prose – and began to read aloud, his mellow baritone echoing through the darkness, soothing and low.

            “Warfare conducted in the Land of Iron is fundamentally different from warfare conducted elsewhere on the continent, as the ideologies and fighting styles of samurai vary drastically in comparison to those of shinobi,” he droned, turning the eleventh page of his monologue and pausing to take a breath. Casting a glance to his left, his expression remained impassive as he reached to tug the blankets up over the narrow shoulders of a soundly sleeping Kise, who was nuzzled snugly under Hashirama’s brawny arm. The brunet blinked awake slowly when Madara trailed pale fingers along his temple in a rare moment of tender affection, and he purred at the loving touch.

            “Hey ‘Dara.”

            “Hey damned Senju.”

            “I love you.”

            “Yeah.”

            “Kise’s asleep thanks to your reading. It’s so soothing.”

            The Uchiha snorted and thumped his lover on the brow, conceding a mild quirking of lips that nearly passed as a smile. “Dull, you mean.”

            “The material, maybe… but I have always loved the sound of your voice,” Hashirama replied with an air of fond reminiscence as he pulled the child dozing against him more tightly to his side. “It reminds me of so many things – of the crackling of firewood or the feeling of cold water against my skin. It has power like thunder, but can lull like the sound of rainfall on the roof. Why do you think I pester you to read for me when I wake from nightmares?”

            “You think about this far too much,” Madara scolded temperately, flicking several strands of inky hair over his shoulder. “Perhaps I’ll stop speaking entirely if it cures you of your ridiculous infatuation with me.”

            Whining, the Hokage painted on his most dramatic pout, but instantly silenced his retaliation when Kise whimpered in his sleep and curled a small fist into the cloth covering his adoptive father’s broad chest. “Poor thing,” the Senju whispered as he smoothed dark tresses away from the boy’s closed eyes, “He’s exhausted. And I’m sure he misses his mother very much already.”

            “He was prepared for her passing. Children are resilient – he will be fine.”

            “I suppose you’re right,” Hashirama sighed mournfully as he brushed dark fringe away from the little Uchiha’s tightly shut eyes. “We grew up through war and famine and death, and we still managed to turn out okay.”

            “Speak for yourself.”

            “I will take care of him forever.”

            “No one lives forever, idiot.”

            “Then I’ll try to leave behind something that will be worth protecting in the future… this peace we made. And as long as I’m still here, I want to look after Kise; to give him a home and a family that won’t be torn apart by wars and grudges that he is too young to understand. He’s a sweet boy, and I always wanted a child.”

            Madara laughed without a sliver of amusement, stretching to extinguish the candle flame before lying back down in the darkness, resigning to allow Kise to remain in their bed for this night alone. “If so, you should’ve married the Uzumaki woman when you had the chance. You could have an entire herd of red-haired hellions by now.”

            “That’s not fair!” the brunet complained. “I want a family with you!”

            “Disgusting. Even if my anatomy permitted it, I would refuse to carry your… _spawn._ And considering how dearly you enjoy being _under_ me,” he retorted in a suggestive, languid drawl, “I would venture to guess that you would perhaps be the one bearing _my_ heir.”

            Hashirama gasped, deeply scandalized, and placed a censoring hand over Kise’s ear, as if the boy would hear the conversation through the deep cloak of sleep that had conquered him at last. Disregarding his lover’s muttered scolding, the Uchiha stared at the ceiling of the bedroom with vague disinterest, a smug expression smeared over his features until the taller man finally fell silent, granting him peace. He mulled tiredly over the day’s events, musing that spontaneously becoming a parent to more than just the members of his clan – he often considered them his children, protecting them beneath the broad wingspan of his power regardless of how they resented him for it – had as of yet been unremarkable. Still, time would tell all, as it always had, and he suspected that this development would prove to be either one of Hashirama’s more brilliant schemes, or a colossal disaster. Absently hoping that it would not reveal to be the latter, Madara allowed his eyes to flutter shut… only to be interrupted by the Senju’s voice slicing warily through the silence.

            “’Dara?”

            “Why do you all refuse to let me sleep?”

            “Sorry… but I was wondering,” he began in a cautious whisper, “when you have nightmares, what are they about?”

            Pliable under the weight of his exhaustion and the alluring tug of slumber just beyond his grasp, the paler man sighed and answered honestly, though begrudgingly so. “About Izuna, usually. Most often about the battle when he was wounded, but occasionally about the day he gave me his eyes. Go to sleep, Hashirama.”

            “Me too.”

            “Now what are you on about?”

            “Sometimes I dream about the day Izuna died, because I thought that it would be the day when I lost you forever… and I can’t help but wake up in tears. I love you, Madara,” the Hokage said with a heavy sincerity that the other man had not heard in quite some time, fumbling about in the dark until he sought out his Uchiha’s hand, slender yet strong in his own. “Do you love me?”

            The smaller founder groaned wearily, tugging his hand free from his lover’s grasp and turning away to lay on his side with a flustered flop. “Am I wearing your necklace, Hashirama?”

            “Yes?”

            “Do I let you sleep by my side?”

            “When you aren’t angry, yeah.”

            “Then you have your answer. And don’t try to be clever with me, I most certainly am not in the mood,” he added dangerously. “Now go back to sleep, you oaf.”

            Reluctantly the brunet conceded, his easy snores eventually lulling Madara into a fitful slumber, though he was roused by each unfamiliar movement of the small body that managed to nestle itself against his back. It had taken years for him and Hashirama to be able to sleep in the same room without practically gutting each other at every minute motion or sound that their bedmate made; a byproduct of years of intensive training and a lifestyle too deeply engrained to easily forget. Now, as Kise struggled to burrow beneath the warmth of his weight, the Uchiha patriarch fought his body’s screaming urge to retaliate against the closeness, barely managing to do little more than stiffen against the intrusion. After a long while the boy fell still, his presence but a mere lump of warm pressure curled into the curve of Madara’s spine, and the elder man permitted himself a moment of reminiscence – of times when he and Izuna would nuzzle together to fight away the winter chill that their famine-thinned bodies could not combat on their own.

            In those days, lean, battle-hardened muscles and threadbare futons were too commonplace; less so than the baby fat and downy blankets that were to be expected for any clan not plagued by war or starvation or drought. But that was not the world in which they were raised. Madara remembered vividly how devastated a young Izuna had been when the stray tabby cat that he had become so fond of had disappeared, only to be eaten by a family that had less food upon their table than that of the clan head. The elder promised that when the war was over and they lived in peace that he could have as many cats as he liked, though Izuna – sassy and stubborn even in the face of sorrow – had refused, reminding his aniki that such a day would never come. Yet when it did, after his younger brother’s ashes had already been swept away by the wind, Madara had prayed for the first time he could recall; prayed that Izuna would forgive him, that he would not be disappointed in his weakness.

            True, he had disregarded the faulty equilibrium of lives lost in favor of peace with the Senju, just as he had nearly abandoned the clan in favor of freedom – freedom from what, he was never entirely sure – but it had struck him then. Just as his sandals scuffed between the village gates, determined to leave for good, Madara realized which of these two slights would have wounded Izuna the most and earned his disappointment. Making peace with those whom had stolen away the lives of so many Uchiha? Or to leave behind what family remained simply because they thought him too troublesome, too unlike their newly-appointed Hokage? Distraught with himself, he had gone to Hashirama that night, silently seeking out comfort, and had been welcomed with open arms full of love, safe and warm despite his own reluctance. He had scarcely strayed since, trying his utmost to repair relations with the clan without actually apologizing for past transgressions, and staying nearby his Senju’s side, regardless of their constant bickering and useless spats.

Now they occasionally chuckled over drinks at how angst-ridden their pasts had been, but it was a mere farce to lessen the blow of reminiscence; they both knew which topics not to touch. Like pressing on the flesh of bruised fruit, the damage would always occur beneath the surface, out of sight. Sometimes Madara would gouge at old wounds purely out of spite during their arguments, but Hashirama never failed to flash him that sad smile, lowering his voice to a whisper as he mumbled soothing words – though the Uchiha was certain that he said them for himself more often than not.

Sighing, he shook the memories from his mind in favor of seeking out what little rest he could attain, glancing over his shoulder to the child sleeping against his solid frame. Not a replacement for Izuna, Hashirama had said, though Madara thought that the boy had to be like his late brother in some ways if he was brave enough to sleep that soundly while curled between the two most powerful shinobi in existence. The Uchiha patriarch arched one brow in reluctant amusement as he allowed his chakra to flare lightly beneath his skin, warmth radiating from his body in the way he had mastered during cold nights when he and Izuna were children, and Kise purred, burrowing more firmly against him. He would let the little one rest like this for tonight, Madara thought absently, damning himself for being so generous.

“Goodnight,” he murmured, though no one replied, and at last shut his eyes.


	3. Chapter Three

 

            “Good morning, my loves,” Hashirama offered when he bumbled his way into the kitchen, searching out his morning cup of tea.

            Madara cast him an irritated glance from his seat across from Kise, his cup clinking gently against the tabletop as he eyed his lover’s disheveled appearance. “Could you at least brush your hair? You need to look respectable for the funeral.”

            “Speak for yourself,” a low voice interjected, and the elder Uchiha’s glare darkened when Senju Tobirama strolled into their home, casually permitting himself entrance. “Good morning, anija. Good morning, mad dog.”

            “Good morning, hell spawn,” Madara replied dismissively, sipping his tea.

            “Tobi! Come meet Kise-kun!” the Hokage sang, disregarding their usual routine of slinging insults and sauntering to his brother’s side, dragging his fingers through his earthy brown locks.

            “Who?”

            The child rose, unprompted, from his seat at the table and offered the younger Senju brother a low bow, greeting him respectfully. Hashirama grinned broadly as he warmly dismissed Madara’s seething remark about how it was unnecessary for the boy to be so polite to someone was scarcely worthy of being pissed on by an Inuzuka mutt, and spoke happily over the comment. “This is Uchiha Kise-kun, Tobirama! He’s your nephew now!”

            “I beg your pardon?” the snowy-haired man questioned with an inquisitive glare in crimson eyes. “Nephew? That would mean….”

            “He’s Madara’s and my son!” he practically sang in response, squaring his shoulders and oozing pride.

            “I don’t have a son.”

            “You don’t have a son,” Tobirama and the elder Uchiha noted in unison, earning a pitifully wounded expression from Hashirama in reply.

            “We took him in,” the brunet explained, his palms tousling Kise’s short hair gently. “His mother was a widow of war and was very ill for a long time, but we didn’t have the medicines or chakra manipulation to heal her. She passed away the night before last and I decided that I wanted to give her son another chance. Sora-san was a lovely woman, and she raised him very well on her own, despite her chronic sickness. But he is part of our family now, and I don’t want either of you discounting that. Am I understood?”

The Hokage let his chakra flare for a moment, solidifying his point, and it had been quite some time since he had felt the need to assert his dominance over his otouto and lover in such a way. “Come along, Kise, let’s get you dressed.”

            As the boy trailed obediently behind a flustered Hashirama, rounding the corner of the corridor and out of sight, the other Senju brother sighed heavily and cast a curious glance at Madara. “I can’t believe that you agreed to this.”

            “Not out of sentiment or some parental impulse, I assure you,” came the sharp-tongued reply. “This is Hashirama’s scheme. Though I suppose that I will name the brat as my heir… as long as he doesn’t disappoint. He has a strong sensitivity to chakra already and will likely become an impressive sensor, so I am not particularly concerned. At least that idiot didn’t bring home some reject.”

            “That’s a poor way to speak of your child.”

            Unappreciative of the other man’s sarcastic tone, the Uchiha patriarch fixed him with a livid glare, snarling out his discontent. “He is not my child.”

            Before Tobirama could conjure a snarky reply his brother returned with the boy, now both donning black mourning robes matching Madara’s, though he could scarcely discern any viable difference between the clothes that the other founder wore now and the dismal shades of his usual garb. “I suppose this is why you asked me to look after your business for the next several days, anija? You have a meeting with the clan elders this afternoon. Do you honestly expect me to explain why it is that you are not there? Telling them about all of… _this_ ,” the slender man complained with a vague gesture, “is certainly not my duty. _You_ have to tell them that you are now raising an Uchiha child, not me.”

            “I have an Uchiha partner, so what’s the problem?”

            “The problem is that it’s _your_ problem, not mine!”

            Hashirama sighed and laid a brawny hand on his younger brother’s shoulder, offering a weary smile as he ushered Kise gently towards the door to leave. “I will handle it. Just look after things for me, will you? We have a funeral to attend and afterwards I would like to spend some time with my son.”

            “Very well,” he reluctantly conceded as he watched them go, Madara ghosting past him with a glare and a warning to get out of their house. Determining that this was scarcely the first time he had complied with Hashirama’s whims against his better judgement – and would likely not be the last – Tobirama huffed his irritation and settled at the kitchen table to help himself to breakfast and a cup of tea, purely out of spite.

{{{}}}

            The service was small and eerily silent, the weather far too pleasant for such a somber occasion. Few attended – a mere handful of neighbors and old friends from within the clan – and no one cared to speak any kind words regarding the life of Uchiha Sora save for the Hokage himself, who knew little but spoke with warmth and fondness. Madara watched Kise throughout the meager event, studying the vacant stare in the child’s eyes and his rigid posture and the way he clung dearly to Hashirama’s hand. The boy never shed a tear, likely as they had already been wept away; but the Uchiha patriarch noted a distinct tightening of narrow shoulders when he at last stepped forward to light the pyre, his jutsu quickly rendering the shrouded body to ash. After leaving behind modest offerings of flowers and incense, the gathering disbanded, leaving the two founders and the child alone by the clan shrine.

            “You did well,” Madara commented casually, concluding his brief prayer and rising to his feet, resting a surprisingly gentle hand on Kise’s head. He knew not what else to say or do, but decided to make some effort nonetheless; as any awkwardness was less unbearable than continuing to silently speak to gods or spirits that likely did not care about what thoughts he had to share. He was long forsaken, and kneeling before a shrine while pretending that he was not did little more than frustrate him. “But sitting here any longer serves no purpose. Let us go.”

            “But Madara—!”

            “It’s okay, dad,” Kise mumbled quietly, still clutching the taller man’s fingers fiercely in his small grasp, “I said goodbye already.”

            “Are you sure? I will stay with you if you want to stay a while longer,” Hashirama desperately offered, though his lover merely rolled his eyes as the Senju’s obscene sentimentality. “We don’t have to go yet, Kise.”

            The boy shook his head, glancing once more at the pile of white peonies that they had left in offering – his mother’s favorite. “I would like to go home now.”

            “Okay. Home. Um… yeah,” the Hokage bumbled, looking about as if he was lost.

            “Home, you fool,” Madara interjected as he folded his arms impatiently over his chest. “That place where we live. His home is with us now, isn’t it?”

            Kise nodded once, tugging lightly on the Senju’s hand; and the brunet struggled to fight away tears of joy when the little Uchiha called him ‘dad’ once more. “You’re such a good boy,” he sobbed when he hugged the child to his chest, scrubbing ugly tearstains away with the back of his free hand and wiping his nose on his sleeve. “He’s such a good boy, isn’t he Madara? I love him and I want to keep him forever!”

            “Yes, yes, come along,” he dismissed, tossing several locks of ebony hair out of his crimson eyes, though they managed to slip across his face once more. “We need to go to the market. We have nothing suitable for a child and he needs new clothes. I refuse to tote around a brat that looks like some street urchin.”

            The pair followed him dutifully as he stalked away, unwilling and too lacking in patience to hear any complaints, and they watched as his broad silhouette parted the crowds of the budding commerce district like a sharp knife through flesh. He stopped occasionally to gesture commandingly for Hashirama to hand over his purse, and the Hokage was dismayed at how much lighter it seemed each time it was returned to his eagerly waiting palm. But he dare not comment, as it was far too pleasant to watch his two Uchiha bond over something as simple as purchasing clothes to replace those that had grown too threadbare and ragged from unintentional abuse.

            After several hours and a break for a belated lunch, Hashirama found himself in a dimly lit bookstore, one arm full of various bags and packages while the other held a dozing Kise, watching as Madara sifted contently through stacks of scrolls. “Dearest,” he called when the boy shifted sleepily against his shoulder, drooling lightly against his robes, “have you found what you were looking for? Because I think we’re all getting a bit tired, yeah?”

            “You can wait,” the Uchiha patriarch informed dryly. “Don’t rush me. This is… special.”

            “Well, alright,” he sighed, arms straining somewhat against his cargo.

Typically, the brunet would revel in moments like these, watching his lover mull about while surrounded by the books that he so dearly loved, hands trailing over the spines that rumbled beneath his fingertips. Madara always seemed the most at ease in those instants, his mind slowing and senses dulled by the heady scent of ink tattooed on pages, soothed by the knowledge that he could hold entire conversations without ever speaking a word. There was a peacefulness about him when he stood hidden by the towering shelves that was practically unattainable during his waking hours, and Hashirama felt it a sin to disturb him from that respite. The Hokage had become childishly jealous of the books once, after witnessing the contentment in his lover's posture and expression, and had been thoroughly scolded for his idiocy; but he still could do little to keep himself from questioning what he lacked in comparison. He had received an answer later after they had been out drinking – the influence of alcohol once again encouraging one of Madara’s more genuine, heartfelt confessions – and learned that books provided a means for him to be alone with his thoughts and not remain plagued by memories or regrets. Hashirama had cried about it in his drunken stupor, but had never sought to impose upon those sacred moments again.

“Let’s go,” Madara said as he paid for a large stack of books and scrolls, jarring the Senju from his recollections.

“Ah. Sure.”

Trudging home, the Hokage traded warm smiles for the questioning glances that the villagers tossed him as they passed, for once their eyes disregarding the Uchiha by his side in favor of the little one asleep on his shoulder. He wanted to preen, to inform the entire Land of Fire that this lovely boy _was his son_ , but Madara gave him no quarter to stop and chat, let alone brag about their newest addition. It was jarring, truly, the way that someone could come so quickly into your life and you could equally as quickly decide to love them with everything that you have, as if it would be the most natural thing in the world. Hashirama had felt that sensation before upon the births of his brothers, and it was still as rattling and overwhelming and _beautiful_ as it had been all those years ago. Perhaps he was being rewarded for finally doing something right, he thought whimsically, to be given the chance to experience that feeling again, to have happiness that warmed his heart, to have Madara and Kise and Tobirama and this peace that they fought so hard for.

Hashirama stopped as he waited for his lover to unlock their front door, glancing up at the cliff face that watched over the village like a sentinel of stone, fondly admiring the way the just-setting sun painted the rock in shades of vivid orange. “Hey,” he murmured, shifting his grasp on Kise as he walked to Madara’s side, placing a gentle kiss on the elder Uchiha’s temple. “I love you. I’m really happy, you know.”

“Stop that, you fool. We’re still in public.”

“Sorry, sorry. I couldn’t help it. I just love you both so much.”

“Both?” the shorter man asked with a mirthless chuckle, stepping inside and kicking off his shoes. “Put those things away and wake up the kid.”

“Shouldn’t we let him sleep?” the brunet asked, gracelessly dropping his cargo on the floor and hugging the sleeping child to his chest. “He must be exhausted, he’s slept through all of this and hasn’t woken. I’m sure we can postpone dinner until he wakes on his own.”

“Very well.”

With a sigh Madara conceded, stalking off to his study with his spoils from the bookstore while Hashirama put Kise down to bed, the Senju soon joining him. “What prizes did you hunt so long for today, love?” he asked, nuzzling against his Uchiha and leaving delicate kisses along his neck.

“Nothing for you,” came the sharp reply, and the shorter shinobi smirked at the other man’s ridiculous pout.

“For whom then?” the Hokage teased, pulling his lover around for a deep, heady kiss and swaying their bodies side to side. “Your other lover? Hmm? Is he more handsome than me?”

“Devastatingly so,” he said in that deep baritone, electing to play along with Hashirama’s little game. He sucked in a long breath, holding it in his chest for several long moments before releasing it as if admitting defeat. “They’re for… the brat.”

“Oh?”

Madara gave a potent glare, turning away to fold his arms across his chest defiantly. “I was working during breakfast—…”

“I told you not to do that. You should enjoy your meals.”

“Shut up. And the kid kept asking about the kanji that he didn’t know. So many damn questions,” he stated as if defending himself. “I bought him books to study with. I refuse to raise an heir that can’t read. That’s preposterous.”

Unable to suppress his smile, Hashirama laughed, latching his arms tightly around the other man’s waist. “He’s only six, you know.”

“At six I was already being groomed into the future leader of my clan and preparing for war.”

“I know, love,” the Senju chuckled again, burying his nose into the mess of that ebony mane. “I’m glad, is all. You’re already acting like a father. Surprisingly, it suits you.”

With a huff Madara pulled away. “Just as it suits you to behave like a mother… doting and fussing and whatnot. Go prepare supper, Mother,” he provoked, grinning deviously as he sat down to complete some rather droll paperwork.

“Mother? Says the one who had me between his legs last night,” Hashirama goaded in a deep rasp, laughing to himself as he ducked out the door, scarcely avoiding the scroll thrown violently at his head.

“Bastard,” the Uchiha patriarch swore, bristling as he returned to his work.


	4. Chapter Four

 

            “When’s dad going to be home?”

            “I did not know thirty minutes ago, and I do not know now. Stop asking and focus on your work,” Madara scolded temperately, scarcely glancing up from his scrolls to address the boy sitting across from him. Judging from the way he complied, but fidgeted nervously, the Uchiha patriarch knew that it was only a matter of time before another question was tossed his way.

            “But… um… he said he’d be home today, right?”

            “Kise,” the elder man warned, raising his gaze for an instant in a pointed glare.

            The child shrank into silence, returning to his studies diligently as he was instructed. In the nearly four months since the little Uchiha had become a part of their household, they had taken to working in this manner – one on either side of the desk in Madara’s study, sharing the space in dutiful quietude. Madara truthfully did not mind the new variety of normal, and found the boy to be rather agreeable in most circumstances; though he did possess the irrepressible curiosity of any child of six and had adopted some of Hashirama’s rowdiness, but only when the Senju was present. Otherwise, he was tactful and respectful, even despite having developed a certain manner of strange familiarity with his clan head.

            Kise had grown drastically since becoming a part of their bizarre little patchwork family, both physically and in knowledge and skill. They trained and studied and played, using the large oak with low branches that Hashirama had grown in their courtyard for shuriken practice as frequently as for climbing. And though Madara still struggled with awkwardness in the face of the lighthearted atmosphere that had bloomed so potently into his life, he had to admit that it was pleasant to be so greatly admired, adored unconditionally – even despite being the ‘strict parent’, as his lover often teasingly called him.

            As if on cue, the front door opened, and the Hokage’s rich, earthy voice rang through the house, instantly painting a broad smile across the child’s face. “Madara? Kise? I’m home!”

            “Dad!” Kise shouted, bolting from the office in a flurry of papers and tearing down the corridor, only to be scooped up in Hashirama’s powerful arms and hung over his shoulder like a sack of rice.

            “Madara?” he sang, ducking his head into the Uchiha’s study. “I could have sworn I heard a little boy named Kise, but all I found was this sack of rice. Do you know where he ran off to?”

            “Dad! I’m not rice!” the child giggled, squirming in his adoptive father’s grasp.

            “Oh well,” Hashirama shrugged with a sigh, giving his lover a quick peck on the lips. “What a shame! Especially since I brought him a present all the way from Suna!”

            Brushing past the taller man and into the hall, Madara smirked lightly at their little game, collecting several scrolls from the bags that his Senju had dropped carelessly on the floor near the front door, reading through them quickly. “I suppose we’re having rice for supper?”

            “No!” the little Uchiha whined, wriggling until Hashirama at last deposited him back on his feet, where he could close his thin arms around the tanned shinobi’s waist. “I missed you, dad. What is Suna like? Is it big? What kind of chakra do their ninja have?”

            “And I missed you,” he laughed, carding his calloused fingers through Kise’s dark hair. “Did you behave while I was gone?”

            “I did! We practiced my fireball jutsu and it was really hard and it makes me cough, but after a while there were flames and not just smoke. And Uncle Tobirama showed me his summons and this water dragon jutsu. And I got to play with Kagami and Homura and Hiruzen!”

            “Uh… wow,” the Hokage chuckled with a surprised arch of one brow, casting a glance to Madara, who merely shrugged. “You were busy.”

            “You were gone for two weeks. I had to find some way to wear him out so that he’d sleep,” the other man said dismissively. “The bedtime routine is your job.”

            With a smile and an easy huff, Hashirama pried himself free of the boy’s grasp, moving to claim a proper kiss from the man he loved – who protested mildly – and began sorting through the items he had discarded near the door until he found two packages, each wrapped in fine red cloth. “For you, dearest,” he offered, handing one of the items to the elder Uchiha before turning to the younger. “And for you.”

            Kise was practically bouncing on the balls of his feet, trying his best to behave properly under the weight of Madara’s warning glare, but failing miserably in his excitement. Taking the prize carefully, he unfolded the crimson wrapping, allowing the silk to puddle on the floor and reveal a small puppet of a yellow-striped cat. “Kitty?” he asked with a curious tilt of his head, dragging a thin finger between the doll’s ears and down its back.

            “Suna has lots of shinobi who specialize in manipulating puppets,” the Hokage explained happily, tethering some of his own power to the little toy and urging it to clatter to life, rubbing itself affectionately against Kise’s hand at his bidding. “Like this, see? Maybe you can practice with it. It’ll help you learn how to finely control your chakra.”

            “Cool,” the child sang, eyes wide with wonder.

            “Go play in your room while I talk to Madara, yeah?”

            “Yeah!”

            “Good boy,” the Senju called after him as he capered away, waiting until he was gone before turning to his lover, pinning the elder Uchiha remorselessly against the wall and stealing a heady kiss, their hips rolling together. “Damn, I missed you.”

            Madara laughed deviously against tanned lips, and he could do little to suppress the pride he felt at the knowledge that he alone was able to fluster this man – the Shinobi no Kami – to such an obscene degree. The timbers of the house practically rattled beneath the burden of the chakra that seethed from Hashirama’s core, wild and carelessly unsuppressed in his sheer _want_ for the other man. “So it seems,” the paler nin teased as he sank his teeth into their kiss, “but I hope you actually tried to be diplomatic during your meeting, rather than simply moping around dreaming about me.”

            “I always dream about you, love,” Hashirama sighed, breathless when Madara’s hands crept beneath his robes. “Did you read the reports?”

            “I did,” he replied, nipping at the taller man’s throat. “That damn Kazekage is nothing but trouble. You were too generous at the Summit, and then you had to go and give them that farmland as well*. Now he wants more. Look what a hassle that bleeding heart of yours has caused. It’s not our problem that they decided to live in a fucking desert.”

            “Well….”

            “I hope you put him in his place, oh wise and powerful Hokage-sama,” the Uchiha said in his husky baritone, blunt nails scraping over his lover’s chest. “After all, I do enjoy it whenever you assert your… dominance.”

            The brunet’s knees buckled lightly at the insinuation, delivered so casually in that sinful voice – teasing and careless and fully aware of the power it held over him. “Not fair, ‘Dara,” he hissed. “Kami, that’s not fair.”

            “All’s fair, or so they say.”

            “Who is ‘they’? I need to give them a piece of my mind.”

            Smirking lightly, Madara slipped out from Hashirama’s grasp, offering only a gentle pat on his shoulder in condolence for being denied. “Go wash up. Perhaps we can go out for supper?”

            “Wait,” the Senju jolted awkwardly, settling and astonished stare against the other man’s retreating back. “Are _you_ suggesting that we go _out_? You do realize that there are _people_ out there, right? People that you’d have to _talk to_.”

            “You aren’t funny, you know,” he spat in reply, waving a dismissive hand at the brunet and vanishing into his study. There was a brief pause before the Hokage was suddenly struck with the full fury of the Uchiha patriarch’s chakra – angry and roiling as it had not been in a very long time – and a vicious bellow, wrought with rage and despair. “Get out! Damn you, get out! Out of my sight!”

            An instant later Kise came tearing from the room, eyes wide and tears streaming down his face as he fled to Hashirama’s side, cowering behind him and clinging to the hems of his haori for dear life. Chanting an apology like a dying prayer, the boy flinched when Madara roared again, a sound suspiciously like books being thrown from a shelf echoing through the house and rattling in the rafters.

            “What on earth is going on?” the Senju asked no one in particular, gesturing for his adopted son to stay behind as he ventured cautiously into the battleground that his lover’s office was sure to become. “Dearest, your chakra… please. Why so angry? What happened?”

            “That brat,” the Uchiha hissed, whirling to face the taller man, Sharingan gleaming dangerously, “did the _one_ thing that I told him not to do! The _one thing_! Am I so disrespected around here that I’m not even permitted a single thing that is mine alone?!”

            Carefully approaching, the brunet rested a soothing hand on Madara’s shoulder, wary not to incite his rage further. “Of course not, love. Kise adores you and respects you. He certainly wouldn’t want to upset you so much on purpose. What did he do?”

            “Izuna’s katana… I told him that it was off limits and not to be touched, but he did it anyway! Damn it!” he seethed, shoulders sagging slightly as he grabbed fistfuls of his own ebony hair.

            “Okay. Okay…” Hashirama sighed gently, placing an easy kiss on his lover’s brow though he was shoved away. “Will you let Kise apologize? And then maybe he can stay with Tobirama tonight and we can have some time to ourselves, yeah?”

            “Fine,” Madara conceded bitterly, following his Senju out into the hall to where the boy stood waiting, thin shoulders shaking as he sniffled into his sleeves. The elder Uchiha almost felt ashamed for upsetting him so much, especially when the child glanced up at him, nothing but love and regret and embarrassment swimming in his coal-black eyes. He recoiled dramatically when Kise lunged forward, wrapping his arms around his clan-head’s waist as if he would never let go, little fists knotted in his shirt while he cried into his chest.

            “I’m so… sorry,” the boy managed between sniffles and stifled sobs. “I wanted t—to see it… ‘cause you said it w—was special… and if it’s s—special to you… it’s special f—for me too. P—please don’t be angry. I’m s—sorry.”

            “Just take him, Hashirama,” he scoffed at the display, skin crawling at the affection he was shown. “Leave me be. I’m disappointed in you.”

            Kise choked on a whimper at the reprimand, but nodded solemnly in reply, obediently following as he was ushered out the door by his other adopted father, who cooed gentle comforts that sought to ease his distress. Sighing when he was left alone, Madara drug his fingers through his unruly hair, grumbling bitterly at the enigma that was parenthood – and the enigma that was the child he had conceded to raise. As leader of his clan and founder of the village, he was feared more often than truly respected; generally shied away from as a threat or an immense and dangerous power tethered down by little more than thread. Grown men yielded at the sight of his shadow. Yet this brat, in his audacity, had thrown his arms around him – an anomaly in itself – mere moments after he had permitted his chakra to flare so violently, hot and angry and unrestrained. Clearly, Madara thought bitterly, the boy either genuinely cared for him or was stark raving mad. And given his prior experience with the world as a whole, the Uchiha patriarch was more inclined to assume the latter. Throughout the course of his adulthood, only two people had ever been so brave as to trust him implicitly: his dearest Izuna and that fool Hashirama. The prospect of adding a third name to that list seemed, in the face of probability and all conceivable logic, utterly absurd.

            But… the possibility in itself was oddly soothing, reassuring. Like some long-awaited signpost that finally sought to confirm that he had at last done something right, regardless of his numerous flaws and past transgressions. A vague reassurance that his efforts had never been for naught.

            With a curse he trudged back to his study, frowning at the mess he had made in his rage, and began collecting his books from the floor, frustrated and perplexed as to how his anger had managed to withdraw so quickly. It was now but a bitter knot in his gut, tingling vaguely beneath his skin; far from the maelstrom that it had erupted into. Madara had never been a man prone to sentimentality – Hashirama had enough for the pair of them – yet those tears and clinging fingers and whimpers of apology had broken him in some way. It was difficult to maintain one’s ire in the face of such sincerity, as plain as afternoon shadows through thin paper doors.

            “Shit,” he hissed as he collected an unfurled scroll, spilt ink drowning away some of the characters on its surface. Determining that it was unimportant and its usefulness rendered null, he tossed the document aside, though a small splash of color caught his eye, tucked unceremoniously beneath an upturned book. Curious, he reached forward, but recoiled as guilt sawed painfully through his chest when he recognized Kise’s yellow cat puppet, its joints and hinges now tweaked and dislodged. His frown deepened as he collected the toy gingerly, studying the mangled pieces that sprawled over his open palm and kneading his temple in distress.

            “Damn it all.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Tidbits*
> 
> This nonsense refers to the first Five Kage Summit, where Hashirama distributed the bijuu and whatnot. Since the Kazekage was haggling over prices and shit because they already had the One Tails (Shukaku), Hashirama was like, “Are we cool if I give you some fertile land right near Konoha? Since you guys live in a desert and all.” And the Kazekage was like, “Meh, I guess. But we’re gonna be super sketchy about it and fight you every time you guys roll up in our hood, ya dig?” And Hashirama was like, “’Kay. You do you, boo boo.”
> 
> So they agreed on the deal, but subsequently fought over control of the area until Tobirama was Hokage and decided that he was tired of everyone’s bullshit and that he wanted it back. The end.


	5. Chapter Five

 

            Madara heard Kise and Hashirama arrive home from where he sat in his study, but made no effort to go and greet them, rather opting to remain stubbornly where he was. The Senju would likely come to complain about being locked out of their house the night before and subsequently having to impose even more upon his brother, yet the Uchiha patriarch truthfully did not care. While he had longed to spend some time with his lover following his return from Suna, the aftermath of the previous evening’s chaos demanded silence and solemn contemplation instead. Vaguely he acknowledged his guilt at his rather unsightly outburst and for completely terrifying the child that had been left in his care, but would continue to refuse to apologize to the boy – his pride had not become _that_ disposable in recent months.

            A light knock on his door had him raising his gaze, only to find Kise standing awkwardly in the hall, eyes downcast and small fingers worrying the hems of his sleeves. “If you’re looking for sympathy,” Madara snorted in a frigid tone, “you’ve come to the wrong parent.”

            “Um… no. I wanted to, um…. Maybe could I…?”

            “Spit it out. Mumbling is a foul habit.”

            The little Uchiha swallowed a flinch before taking a deep breath, as if it took every ounce of courage in his small body to make his request. “Could you tell me about Izuna-sama?”

            “Excuse me?”

            “Well, dad told me some last night while we were at Uncle Tobirama’s house… but he said that it would be best to ask you,” he explained hastily, dropping his gaze. “Please? I want to know about… my other uncle.”

            It felt as if something had rattled loose in Madara’s chest – some part of his heart that had been left untouched for far too long – and he had to draw a deep breath to keep from recoiling at the request as if he had been stung. No one spoke directly of Izuna save for Hashirama, and such occurrences were so rare that it sometimes seemed that his brother lived only in his head, some phantasmal being that existed due to his memories alone. But perhaps he could recount Izuna’s life to this child who genuinely wanted to know him, who was largely untainted by the accusing whispers and condemnation that circulated within the clan regarding his eyes. He owed the boy some explanation, after all, if not an apology.

            “Very well,” Madara conceded, marking his page in the book he had taken to reading – Hashirama’s gift from Suna – and beckoning for the child to join him in one of the chairs beneath the window. “But I will have you know that if I choose not to speak of something, it will not be spoken of. Am I understood?”

            “Yes, sir.”

            The elder man sighed in resignation, folding his gloved hands in his lap and closing his eyes as he pondered where to begin. “Izuna was my last brother. The others died in the war when we were young, and I decided that I would protect him with every breath that I took, even if he resented me for it. He was lovely, but troublesome. Sarcastic and stubborn, he rarely listened even when we both knew that I was right. Regardless, we cared for each other deeply… we held tight to one another as we were tossed about by years of war.

            “When Hashirama and I met as children, our respective brothers followed us and reported back to our fathers. We were eventually torn apart, forced to choose between our families and their grudges or the dreams that we conjured together. I made my choice, but Hashirama… he clung to both. Always an idealistic fool,” Madara laughed mirthlessly, shaking his head.

            Kise pulled his knees to his chest, arms wrapping snugly around his legs. “Did you and dad love each other when you were young?”

            Sputtering unattractively, the Uchiha patriarch scoffed at the insinuation, though he took a brief moment to contemplate before continuing. “Certainly not. Though I cannot speak for Hashirama. I was simply glad to have someone to talk to. We spoke not of our clans and rarely of the war, but when everything came to light we became rivals in an even truer sense: opposing forces that were destined to clash. Yet even when the Uchiha were being forced to their knees and Hashirama once again extended his hand in an offer of peace, Izuna still warned me against putting trust in an old friend.”

            “He didn’t want peace?” the boy asked carefully, tilting his head slightly and studying the other man’s features closely.

            “Not at the expense of the pride of the Uchiha clan, no. Of course he didn’t want to continue fighting… very few did. Still, my brother was stubborn and willful to his last moment, and would not admit defeat even upon being backed into a corner by the Senju. You remind me of him in some ways… he was never fearful of my power, though you have far more tact than Izuna ever did. And you do fear my disapproval, do you not?”

            Curling into himself and diverting his gaze, Kise nodded, answering weakly with a voice that seemed trapped in his throat. “I don’t want you to hate me.”

            “I… do not,” Madara managed awkwardly, though he quickly recovered and raised his voice to a defensive bark. “But I am displeased that you ignored my instructions. That katana was my gift to Izuna on his eighteenth birthday. It kept him alive for years, until it finally… didn’t.”

            “O—oh.”

            Kise seemed saddened by the thought, a frown pulling across thin lips. It was absurd, the elder Uchiha bitterly thought, the way that the boy could feel so much empathy for a man he knew only through scandalous whispers that bordered on legend. Though considering his surprising resemblance to Hashirama, who was capable of feeling copious amounts of any emotion for even a stranger, perhaps it was not so peculiar. This child was often stern, much like himself or Tobirama, but was much like Izuna in his inability to bear – or at least display – sadness for any length of time. It seemed as if the emotion very quickly grew dull; whereas Madara could writhe in his silent, seething despair until he at last rotted away, like dead leaves plastered to the forest floor.

            “Was my uncle powerful?” Kise chirped, growing weary of his clan head’s wordless reminiscence.

            “Yes,” Madara replied sadly. “He was as strong as he was beautiful, rivaling even my power and possessing the Mangekyō Sharingan. Just as Hashirama and I preoccupied each other during battles, Izuna and Tobirama did the same. They were quite evenly matched… the second-in-command of each clan protecting their clansmen from the other’s power. My brother truly enjoyed their bouts, and felt that that Senju was an interesting challenge that thoroughly tested his abilities.”

            The boy’s dark eyes widened and he shifted in his seat, leaning forward to grasp his adoptive father’s sleeve. “He liked to fight Uncle Tobirama? Were they friends? If he beat Uncle Tobi then he must’ve been really strong!”

            “He was indeed strong,” the elder teased with a smirk, pleased with Kise’s apparent adoration of Izuna. “But never strong enough to beat me. Sometimes he would win, sometimes Tobirama would win – such is the way of war. Come,” Madara said mildly, gesturing for the child to follow as he retrieved his brother’s katana from its rightful place on the bookshelf and drew it carefully, the sword lovingly maintained even long after its wielder’s death. “You see that notch in the blade, just near the hilt? That is from their final battle, when Izuna nearly deflected the blow that would ultimately take his life.”

            Recoiling the small hand that had reached to trail pale fingers over the flaw in the blade, Kise cast his eyes away, his voice barely a whisper when he spoke. “Uncle Tobirama killed Izuna-sama? Everyone says that… that you….”

            “That I what?”

            “That you tore out his eyes because you wanted power and that’s why he died,” the little Uchiha said in a rush of flustered words, flinching as if expecting a blow. But Madara only sighed, looking exceptionally saddened but far from shocked by the accusation.

            “If that is what they say, then they know nothing of my brother or myself… and even less of the sacrifices that we made for the survival of our clan,” he countered, disappointment tugging at his features and painting shadows across his face. “It is true that these are his eyes, but they were a gift – a desperate last resort for two desperate men. My sight had been failing and I neared total blindness due to overuse of my Sharingan, the source of my power stealing away its own strength. Izuna sensed my despair, and when he was injured, he knew that he held the solution in his own dying body.”

            Madara paused abruptly when Kise wrapped his arms firmly around the elder’s waist, nuzzling into the robes that shrouded the taut plane of his abdominals. “How can they say that you didn’t love him?” he managed shakily, tears staining his cheeks. “He was your brother. You loved him, didn’t you?”

            There was a long moment when the sensation of a small body clinging to his own was far too familiar for comfort, even if the memory itself felt like antiquity, older and less vivid than those burned into his cognizance through his Sharingan. It was so distant and yet much too near, and still the Uchiha patriarch placed a large hand on the boy’s back in an awkward attempt at soothing his despair. Kise latched himself more firmly onto Madara’s clothes, sniffling and whining pitifully, only growing silent when he sensed the easy thrum of chakra beneath his adoptive father’s skin. It was peculiar to hold something so fragile, the elder thought absently, considering the last time he had done so was just before Izuna’s passing, when his brother’s body was frail and weak from its valiant war against the pull of death. At that time, skeletal hand clutched carefully in his own, Madara had refused to activate his newly-acquired Eternal Mangekyō Sharingan, fearful of how vivid such a memory would remain after viewed through such eyes – fearful of how it would haunt him. But this was different, he reminded himself, there was no threat of death here, nothing would be taken from him.

“Of course I did,” he replied mournfully, patting the boy’s head. “Izuna was my last brother. I would have done anything to save his life. I was prepared to agree to peace merely so that Hashirama would heal his wounds, but Izuna refused, commanding me not to trust the Senju. Shortly after his death I was defeated soundly by Hashirama, and the bastard nearly killed himself because I gave him a petty ultimatum. Then he strong-armed me into an alliance, creating Konohagakure.”

After a long silence, Kise pulled away to scrub at his drying tears with his sleeve. “I want to be like you and dad when I grow up. And Uncles Tobirama and Izuna, too.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Well,” the child began as a faint flush of pink tinged his cheeks and ears, “you’re all so strong and you can protect people. And I want to find someone who makes me stronger.”

“How foolish. Kami, I hope for your sake that you don’t end up too much like Hashirama. If he wasn’t so powerful, someone surely would have killed him long ago for being a nuisance,” Madara snorted, waving the comment away. “And it would be best if you don’t end up like me, either. Or Izuna. My brother was too sassy and stubborn for his own good. And I cannot even _begin_ to start listing all of Tobirama’s flaws.”

Kise laughed quietly behind his hand, and the elder Uchiha nearly conceded a smile himself as a broad grin unzipped across the boy’s expression, warm and contented and knowing, much like his late brother’s – though it was lacking a certain mischievousness. His Senju lover was correct, though he hated to admit it, that Kise was a good boy: tactful and clever, yet kind. It was truly remarkable that speaking of Izuna had been so easy, and Madara suspected that his audience had a tremendous part to play in as to why. No matter, his task was done – an explanation sans apology given – and certainly he would be able to avoid any further reprimands that Hashirama had prepared for him overnight. Curious, he felt around for his lover’s chakra, almost certain that the brunet buffoon had eavesdropped on the entirety of their conversation, and found it roiling just outside of his office door, very likely churned about by emotion.

“Idiot Senju,” Madara sighed to himself, rolling his eyes. “Come in, Hashirama. I know you’re out there.”

Timidly the door slid open, revealing the tear-stained Hokage in all of his sentimental glory, who promptly rushed in and hugged both of his Uchiha to his chest. “I’m so proud of you two,” he wailed, disregarding the elder’s swears and struggling. “That was so touching!”

“Let go, you fool!”

“Never!”

“Dammit, Hashirama! Unhand me now!”

The boy in his arms giggled, leaning happily into the warmth shared between them and closing his eyes with a contented whisper that went entirely unheard. “I love you... dad, father.”


	6. Chapter Six

           

 

            “Dad! Dad, we brought you lunch!”

            “Hey buddy!” Hashirama sang as his expression brightened, all too eager to discard his paperwork in favor of the little Uchiha that came barreling into the Hokage’s office without so much as a knock, trailed silently by a disgruntled Madara. “Did you two make this? I thought you were off training.”

            “We were,” his dark-haired lover interjected flatly, accepting the taller man’s light kiss as he dropped a heavy bento box unceremoniously on the desk.

            “Hika-san made it for you when we stopped to get something to eat,” Kise chirped, balancing his adoptive father’s Kage hat atop his head, though it kept slipping in front of his eyes. The boy grinned as he managed to perch it perfectly, but his smile fell into a deep pout when Madara tapped the corner of the ridiculous garment with a gloved finger, causing it to tilt awkwardly once more.

            The brunet chuckled at their little game as he unfolded the patterned linen from around his lunch, pleased that the near-catastrophe from several days before had been nearly flawlessly averted. His Uchiha had been a bit closer since then, and the elder had even attempted to repair the puppet toy that he had dismembered in his rage – though he begrudgingly asked for Hashirama’s assistance after failing several times. Nothing brought more joy to the Hokage’s heart than the knowledge that Madara was finally softening towards the child, even going so far as to bitterly suggest that Tobirama’s future tutelage would best foster Kise’s natural ability as a sensor. Given such developments in their relationship, he suspected that it would only be a matter of time before the boy was declared the Uchiha patriarch’s heir.

            “Are you going to keep sitting there smiling like an idiot, or are you going to eat?” Madara asked in an irritated tone, shuffling through the stack of incomplete paperwork on his lover’s desk. “We went through the trouble of bringing it over here, don’t waste it. And no, there is no mushroom soup. You’ll survive without.”

            Hashirama frowned dramatically, silenced before the question could even leave his lips. “No soup…” he whined, though he perked up as soon as Kise began rambling about the amazing feats that his other adoptive father had performed during their training session. They were nothing but simple jutsu and taijutsu skills, but the brunet supposed that in the eyes of a young boy, even the most basic task executed by the one person that they admired most was equivalent to the moving of mountains. Madara, for all his prowess as a shinobi, was completely ignorant of the child’s absolute adoration of him; though this lack of awareness regarding the feelings of others was far from a new trait, the Senju reminisced with a silent chuckle.

            “Dad, can I go play with Kagami and Hiruzen? Uncle Tobirama’s team finished their mission early! Can I, please?” Kise pled, watching Hashirama carefully with wide onyx eyes.

            “It’s fine with me, but I think you’re asking the wrong person, yeah?” the tanned shinobi said noncommittally, gesturing to the elder Uchiha with his chopsticks before tucking another bite of rice between his lips.

            Turning to the other man, the boy was scarcely deterred by his stern expression and arms folded stiffly across his chest. “Please?”

            “First of all, you should address Hashirama as Hokage-sama when you are in his office. Show some respect,” his clan head scolded, though there was little anger in his voice. “And while I am not sure if you _can_ play with Kagami and Hiruzen, you _may_.”

            “Really?”

            “Would you like me to change my mind?”

            “No, sir!” the child said emphatically, shaking his head and causing deep brown bangs that had grown far too long to fall across his face. His Senju parent had offered to have it cut, as it was dearly needed, but Kise had vehemently refused, claiming that he wanted to grow long hair like both of his fathers. Hashirama had nearly melted at the sentiment and agreed to the boy’s demands, wholeheartedly reassuring that it would suit him.

            “Well come along, then,” Madara said impatiently, holding out his hand. “I should like to have a word with Kagami before you go.”

            With a broad grin and a nod, the boy accepted the invitation, curling his small fingers around the elder Uchiha’s own. “Bye, dad! Um… Hokage-sama,” he corrected when he felt the weight of Madara’s warning glare.

            “Be back for dinner, okay?” the Senju chuckled dismissively. “And try not to ruin your clothes.”

            “Okay!”

            As the pair took to the trodden clay streets of Konoha, Madara mused that the villagers’ responses to his presence had changed somewhat over the past several months. They no longer shied away when he was alone, but now offered shallow, polite bows as they always had when Hashirama was at his side. He would likely never be greeted with warm smiles and easy welcomes as his lover was, though he rather did not wish to be; the current situation was an improvement, nonetheless. Even his own clan had softened to him once more, treating him as they had when he used to lead them fearlessly into battle against the Senju, questioning not his purpose or intention. And more likely than not, it all was due to the child who walked beside him now, full of trust as he chattered happily.

            He had always preferred to be feared rather than loved, but this uncanny change had not been unpleasant.

            “Kagami, Hiruzen!” Kise called in a cheery chirp when he caught sight of the two elder boys lounging by the village’s south gate, pulling his hand free of Madara’s and running to their sides.

            “Madara-sama,” Kagami said as the man approached, stiffening awkwardly and offering a formal bow.

            “Kagami,” the Uchiha patriarch huffed in dismissive greeting. “I expect you three to be careful and be back inside the village walls before sundown. If Kise is late for supper, it will be your fault. You are twice his age, so you are responsible for him. Do you understand?”

            “Yes, sir!”

            “Do not stray too far south, the shinobi from Suna have been especially jumpy as of late regarding trespassing on the land that the Hokage gave them. You know what the territory markers look like, don’t you?” he questioned skeptically, voice lowering in silent threat.

            “Yes, sir!” Hiruzen interjected, drawing the sand insignia in the air with one finger.

            Madara straightened, folding his arms over his chest and arching a brow in vague acknowledgement. “Very well. Run along.”

            He conceded a faint smile when Kise latched his arms around his waist briefly before bolting away, giggling as Kagami caught up to him and ruffled his hair, Hiruzen throwing out some hushed complaint about how scary the youngest boy’s father was. Scoffing away the comment, the founder turned to leave, tossing several strands of inky hair out of his eyes and heading north towards home, determined to finish some reading in this temporary peace. Though he was surprisingly not averse to the subtle chaos that had invaded his life – as very little of said chaos was of Kise’s doing, and was more often Hashirama’s fault – Madara nevertheless savored the occasional bouts of true quiet that he managed to steal away. They were more sacred than they had ever been before, and he reveled in the spare instants when he could be alone with his scrolls and books and memories.

            Still, these moments managed to lack the glaring sense of loneliness that they held in the past, and were for reflection and ease, no longer for self-doubt and fueling the flames of resentment or despair. In the years since Konohagakure’s founding, and especially since his near desertion of the village, Hashirama had scarcely permitted his old friend – and eventual lover – to be alone long enough to even _feel_ seclusion. It was irritating, frankly, but Madara could never entirely reject the comfort that it brought him. To have another person who was so willing to share one’s own burdens, who was so quick to steal away the pain and sorrow and bitter reminiscence, must have been a blessing of some sort. But the Uchiha patriarch was always reluctant to believe in such things as blessings and miracles. They were but the conjurings of weak men with weak minds and weak constitutions; not for shinobi such as himself.

            Finally arriving home, he kicked off his sandals and stalked back to his study, settling behind his desk with the second of the two books that Hashirama had brought him from Suna – a rather dull work of economic theory – the first already read and placed on an orderly shelf. After a mere few pages, Madara could feel his eyelids growing uncharacteristically heavy, tiredness tugging at the back of his mind and making his eyes burn. The incident several days ago with Kise had robbed him of some of the scant rest he managed on any decent night, though he refused to admit that guilt was gnawing at his conscience, regardless of how often his lover pointed it out. Perhaps a brief rest was not so selfish, he thought lazily as he rested his chin on folded arms with a sigh. After all, it was quite draining to put forth so much effort into being sociable and fatherly, especially after the scene he had caused a few days prior. Redemption in the eyes of a child was not terribly difficult, but it was delicate. And exhausting.

            “Whatever,” he muttered, deciding that he had earned this respite and permitting himself to stumble into sleep.

{{{}}}

            The dull hum of cicadas and the low afternoon sun pouring through the open window awoke Madara with a violent start, a peculiar uneasiness sitting low in his gut. Suspicious, he felt about for any abnormal fluctuations in chakra, sensing slight flares in several pinpoints of familiar power to the south, flanked by something unacquainted, malicious. A mild thrashing of undeveloped chakra snagged his attention, too panicked and frantic and….

            “Shit!” the Uchiha patriarch cursed, nearly toppling over his desk as he rose suddenly to his feet. “Kise!”

            Frankly, he could not care less if it was all a misunderstanding and he made a colossal scene, and he collected his gunbai from its resting place in the corner of his office, the battered weapon heavy and familiar in his grasp. He would be damned if something happened to the brat on his watch, so disregarding propriety he took to the village rooftops and bolted towards the south gate, alighting the barrier as if it were a mere bump in his path before plunging into the forest below. Notifying Hashirama would have to wait, if he had not already been alerted to the peculiar presence by his brother. There was a reason why he had reluctantly suggested that Tobirama become Kise’s tutor in the future – the younger Senju was the most prominently skilled sensor in existence, and Madara wanted nothing but the best education for the boy. He was to be the heir to the Uchiha clan, after all.

            The forest seemed to part for him as he passed, tearing through the blur of green violently as he cut down anything that stood in his way, the sensation of Kise’s weak, flickering chakra growing nearer. He skid to a halt when Kagami’s desperate voice reached his ears, begging for help.

            “Madara-sama! Sensei! Somebody, please!”

            “Kise?! Kagami!” the founder bellowed as he burst into a small clearing, the elder boy huddled against a tree with the younger sprawled over his lap. Sharingan blooming into a vivid crimson bud, Madara knelt by their sides, casting daring glares to the seven enemies that had fled into the shadow of the forest at his arrival. “What happened?”

            “The Suna shinobi,” Kagami stammered, “we were just playing, I swear! Madara-sama, please believe me! Kise tried to fight off a blow from one of them, but… he fell and hit his head and now he won’t wake up! I’m sorry! I’m so sorry….”

            Growling, the Uchiha patriarch pulled the unconscious child to his chest and held him gently. “Where is the Sarutobi?”

            “Hiruzen went to get help from sensei.”

            “Well, these Suna bastards should be disappointed that I beat Tobirama here. Dry those tears, they are unbecoming of a shinobi,” Madara scolded temperately as he rose to his feet, chakra roiling angrily around himself and the two boys.

            “Father?” Kise managed as he struggled to blink awake, coiling his weak arms around his adoptive parent’s neck and holding tight. “Father, my head hurts.”

            Never in his life had such a pitiful voice brought him so much relief, and the elder man had to sigh heavily as some of the tension and rage in his gut managed to melt away, loosening the knot of concern that had buried itself there. He scarcely had the heart to reject the title of ‘father’, and he reluctantly thought that after the obscene amount of panic that had consumed him at the thought of harm befalling the child, he no longer had the right to do so. “I’m here, Kise,” he mumbled instead, holding him close. “You don’t need to be afraid.”

            “I’m not,” the little Uchiha replied sleepily, nuzzling into the mess of the elder’s ebony hair. “Not anymore.”

            “Good boy. Now close your eyes,” Madara gently said, gesturing for Kagami to stay near him as he raised his voice to a deafening boom, his Susanoo piecing itself together around them. “You Suna cowards have made a terrible mistake. Not only have you ventured outside of your designated territory, but you attacked _my son_. If this sliver of land is worth so much conflict… then I will gladly ensure that there is _nothing left to fight over_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Badass, fatherly Madara just.... ughhhhh. Yasss. Yay character development.


	7. Chapter Seven

 

            “Are you even aware of the damage you’ve caused? Not just physically, but politically as well!” Tobirama roared, pacing frantically around his brother’s living room and casting seething glares at Madara, who sat quietly at the kitchen table with a cup of tea. “All of the negotiation that anija had with the Kazekage is practically null because of you and your temper! You killed thirteen Suna shinobi today! _Thirteen_!”

            “That’s all?” the Uchiha patriarch questioned coolly, not bothering to meet the other man’s gaze. “Let it be a reminder then, that neither I nor Konohagakure are to be trifled with. And as far as the damage to the landscape goes, just have Hashirama grow some trees and a cartographer alter the maps.”

            It took significant effort for the younger Senju not to strike his brother’s lover, but he drew several deep breaths and fought to calm his chakra, straining to remind himself that Madara scarcely listened to reason in situations like this. “That land was valuable to Konoha as well, and all that’s left now is a crater. I can’t believe you used your Susanoo for something so… trivial. Mad dog.”

            “They attacked my son!” the elder man shouted in reply, fists slamming down on the table and toppling his teacup.

            “How convenient that you now call that boy ‘your son’. You were just looking for an excuse to wreak some havoc, weren’t you? It’s been too long since you’ve had blood on your hands, and I’m sure you were getting thirsty for it,” Tobirama spat, folding his arms over his chest defiantly.

            Madara growled, a low, feral rumble that rattled deep in his chest. “What are you implying…? If I truly wanted to kill something, I would have started with _you_.”

            “That’s enough! Both of you!” Hashirama barked when he emerged from their bedroom, his chakra flaring dangerously in warning and causing the rafters to groan. “You’ll wake Kise. He just fell asleep.”

            “Anija….”

            “How is he?” the other founder interrupted.

            The Hokage sighed, taking a seat beside his lover and pouring himself a cup of tea, his tanned fingers weaving between Madara’s own. “He’ll be fine. The head injury that caused him to lose consciousness was very minor, but he has a slight headache that will probably fade with rest. Otherwise only a few chakra burns – some from his own katon jutsu and some from your Susanoo, but nothing too serious.”

            “He managed a katon on his own?” the Uchiha questioned as a proud grin crept onto his face. “Good boy, he put up a fight.”

            “Be glad my students were there, otherwise he’d be dead.”

            “Tobirama!” the elder Senju scolded, silently urging his lover to contain his rage at the brash comment. “You don’t know what it’s like to be a parent. I was terrified when Hiruzen came busting into my office, shouting about Kagami and Kise being attacked outside the village. Do you know how sick I felt when I thought that something had happened?”

            Narrowing his crimson glare, the younger brother squared his shoulders rebelliously, biting the inside of his cheek. “I’m being realistic, anija. And now all the diplomacy that you managed to establish with Suna is gone. Ruined by some lunatic who couldn’t control his temper.”

            “I’ve heard enough,” Madara spat, his voice a bit too calm and oddly unnerving as he rose from the table, stalking away down the hall. “If the pair of you can come to an agreement regarding my punishment, then I will face the consequences of my actions. But for now, I’m going to check on Kise.”

            He was relieved to find the boy resting soundly in the center of the futon he and Hashirama shared, precisely where he had slept on the first night he stayed with his new parents after awaking from a bad dream. It had largely faded into a pleasant memory, though Madara could vividly recall how frustrated he had been during those first few weeks, feeling much like he was being forced to function in a foreign nation without knowing the native tongue. Hashirama had adapted flawlessly, of course, but was patient with his lover’s awkwardness, regardless of how ridiculous he behaved during his rather childish bouts of rejection. Still, the Uchiha patriarch had managed to acclimate as well, though the process was tedious and rocky and full of misunderstandings that could have been easily avoided. Now, nearly five months later, he was at last accepting of the title ‘father’, and was prepared to destroy entire countries in order to protect the boy he called his son and heir.

            Sighing, he sat beside the slumbering child and brushed dark fringe away from his brow, his voice low and gentle when Kise blinked awake slowly. “Go back to sleep, you need to rest.”

            “Father,” the little Uchiha croaked, drowsy as he fumbled about for the elder man’s hand. “Are Kagami and Hiruzen okay? They didn’t get in trouble with Uncle Tobirama, did they?”

            “They’re fine. And Tobirama is only angry with me… he’s glad that you’re all safe.”

            “That’s good,” Kise sighed as he rolled onto his side, stubbornly refusing to release Madara’s hand even as his eyes fluttered shut again. “Why is Uncle Tobirama mad at you? He should have seen your Susanoo, it was so cool. But your chakra kind of makes it hard to breathe sometimes. I want to have big chakra like you and dad one day, too.”

            “You will,” he assured, deciding that it was best to save elucidations of his uncle’s disapproval for another day. The boy was weary from his injuries, now was not the time to explain that his adoptive father’s concern for his safety had cost the lives of thirteen shinobi from a village with whom Konoha had tremulous diplomatic ties, at best. But Madara merely shrugged away the fact, dragging his thumb over Kise’s knuckles gently and coaxing him back into slumber. “Rest now. Hashirama will make you something simple to eat.”

            The child nodded, but held fast to the Uchiha patriarch’s hand nonetheless. “Will you stay until I fall asleep?”

            “Yes.”

            “Thank you, father.”

            It did not take long for easy monotony to conquer the little Uchiha’s sleeping breaths, and in the silence, Madara huffed a heavy sigh himself, forcefully expelling the remaining tension from his body and into the open air. His shoulders sagged as he scrubbed at his tired eyes with the heel of his free palm, vaguely wondering what Izuna would have to say if he saw his elder brother now. Something sarcastic, to be sure. But perhaps he would be somewhat forgiving of the choices that his aniki had made, upon seeing the satisfaction that his current situation seemed to bring. It was chaotic, certainly, and by default Hashirama was as troublesome as ever, and yet it was oddly fulfilling in a way that Madara himself never would have anticipated, let alone strived to maintain.

            “Hey, love, is he still asleep?” said brunet asked quietly when he slipped into their bedroom, kneeling beside his dark-haired lover and setting a tray of rice porridge and miso on a low table.

            “He just dozed off again, but we can wake him to eat if you like. Is your brother gone?”

            “Yes,” the Hokage sighed wearily as he closed his arms around the smaller man’s waist. “I assured Tobirama that I will handle whatever problems arise from today’s incident.”

            Madara snorted, at last wriggling his fingers free of Kise’s grasp and leaning into the tanned shinobi’s warmth. “I most certainly will not apologize. To anyone.”

            “I understand how you feel,” Hashirama muttered between kisses laid along his lover’s shoulder, the sniffles of his suppressed emotion growing louder. “I was terrified when I found out that something had happened and could barely feel Kise’s chakra. To be honest, I don’t know if I was relieved or even more concerned when I felt the power of your Susanoo swell up to the south. I just… I just love you both so much, and if either of you were hurt, I don’t know what I would do.”

            “Don’t cry, stupid Senju,” the Uchiha scolded gently, patting deep brown locks with bemused affection. “As often as you spill them, tears never have suited you. We’re both fine. And frankly, I’m offended that you would even consider the thought that I would be in danger up against such pitiful opponents. This is what you get for doubting me.”

            The pair fell into a long silence, only Hashirama’s fading sobs echoing through the space until he too at last grew quiet, his face still buried weakly against Madara’s neck. After a while, the shorter man drew a deep breath, his voice but a mere whisper when he spoke once more. “Idiot Senju, do you think our brothers would be disappointed in the choices we’ve made?”

            “Tobirama is always disappointed in me,” the brunet chuckled after a moment of thought.

            “Be serious.”

            “Okay, okay,” he conceded, grinning despite the rather vicious swat to the head he received in reprimand. “I don’t think that any of them would have expected things to turn out the way that they did, but I doubt that they’d be disappointed. To be honest, I have a feeling that Itama and Izuna would have gotten along quite well if given the chance – they viewed the war in similar ways, and were concerned for the pride of the dead as equally as the living. Neither would reject peace if it was offered them, though not at the detriment of their own clan’s honor. Kawarama would probably feel much like Kise seems to: simply glad to have a family that is happy and healthy. But I will make sure that Kise sees his eighth birthday, and many more afterwards.

            “And while I never knew your other brothers, I think that Izuna would be very proud of all that you’ve done, Madara. Just like I am. He probably expected you to use his eyes to crush the Senju into submission, but I honestly believe that he would be content with the result that came of his sacrifice… after some well-deserved griping, of course,” Hashirama huffed in amusement, recalling the way a young Madara would whine about his pesky, stubborn otouto while they basked in the sun along the riverbank all those years ago. “I think that peace would have made him restless, though he’d quickly adapt. And I feel that he would genuinely like his nephew.”

Scoffing, the Uchiha leant forward to rest a calloused palm against Kise’s brow, checking for a fever that thankfully was not there. “What a scathing review of my brother’s personality,” he laughed bitterly, fully aware that his lover’s assessment was, in all likelihood, perfectly correct. “Though you had better prepare yourself, Senju… there are more than a few drops of Izuna in this boy. I’ve seen some of that stubbornness already and I can only imagine what he’ll be like as he grows older, especially if Tobirama becomes his sensei. He’ll be an insufferable teenager.”

“Kami help me,” the Hokage sighed with feigned exasperation. “Between the three of you, I’m sure you can drive me to an early grave. At least Kise is more respectable than either you or my brother.”

“I take offense to that. Don’t lump me in with your _oaf_ -touto.”

Hashirama arched an amused brow, pulling the smaller man close once more. “I haven’t heard that insult before. When did you come up with it?”

“Just a moment ago, if you must know.”

“Tobirama has had some clever ones for you as of late, as well.”

“Doubtful. He’s about as clever as a toad.”

The brunet groaned and shook his head, but stunted the conversation with silence before it became even more offensive than it already was. In all the years since his brother and Madara had first been acquainted, the disparities between taunting threats and insults and true malice that the two shared had grown excessively clear; though Hashirama was glad that the latter had lessened considerably over time. Aggression between the two people he cared for most was always taxing, and it never failed to sadden him, even if the only way to cease it from escalating was generally to respond with aggression in kind. Flaring chakra, raised voices, stern expressions – reminding them of his true power seemed to be the only method for distracting them from whatever row they were engaged in, as each man was too stubborn in his own right to defer to diplomacy in such situations. But despite it all, the elder Senju was grateful to have them both. They were the foundations upon which the pillar of Konohagakure stood.

“You know,” Hashirama purred against his lover’s neck, “even if Izuna isn’t here to say it, I will say it for us both. I am so, so proud of you, Madara. And I love you.”

Reaching to shoo long bangs from Kise’s face, the Uchiha patriarch frowned, hiding behind the shroud of ebony hair that shielded his expression from view. “You and the brat both,” he mumbled bitterly, “I love you, too.”

Madara could feel the wetness of tears on his lover’s lips when a soft kiss was placed against his temple, but neither spoke on the matter, their mouths simply moving to meet in a deep, heady kiss that tasted of salt. They melted together for several long moments, savoring the warmth of the other’s touch and clinging tightly until Kise began to awaken once more, stretching and stirring with weak whimpers.

“Hey buddy,” Hashirama sniffled as he wiped at his eyes and swollen lips. “How are you feeling? Are you hungry yet?”

“Why is dad crying?” the boy asked sleepily, struggling to sit up.

“Because he’s an idiot,” Madara coolly replied, smirking when the child nodded in understanding, as if that were the absolute most logical explanation. “You need to eat, and then back to bed.”

“I’ll go to my room.”

“You will stay right here, with us,” the elder Uchiha scolded mildly.

“I thought I was only allowed to sleep with you that one time…?”

Madara snorted, folding his arms over his chest with a stern frown. “Well I’ve changed my mind. I’m your father, now do as I say.”

Kise smiled, big and bright despite the ache of exhaustion that showed clearly in his dark eyes, and crawled to lean in his clan head’s lap contentedly. “Yes, sir.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here's the last chapter of 'Adaptability', but never fear! I'm going to continue adding to this series!
> 
> Thanks to everyone who read, reviewed, dropped kudos, and whatnot! You guy are the best!  
> Meadie out.


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